


Escaping the Emptiness

by RiverSoul



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverSoul/pseuds/RiverSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lisa Cuddy is close to self-harm (or worse), when she decides to ask House for help. But is he the right person to go to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping the Emptiness

There was a knock at the door, even though the doorbell was working perfectly fine.

“Come in, it's open!" House shouted.

Cuddy stepped into the room. Even though she was wearing the same high heels she had been wearing during the day, she seemed somehow smaller. More vulnerable. She didn't cry, but she looked as if she was about to.

“What’s up?” House asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“You’ve got to tell me what to do!” Cuddy burst out, “I’ve done everything, but now I don’t know anymore. You’ve got to tell me.”

“To do about what?” House asked. This was certainly strange behaviour, especially for the Dean of Medicine. She never asked people for advice, especially not him.

“About everything,” Cuddy answered, “I’ve done everything to be happy, but I never was… and I never will be. I know this sounds pathetic, but that’s because I am. Everybody else seems to know what they’re doing and then they manage to somehow get there. But I can’t. I can’t be happy like everybody else.”

“What’s wrong?” House asked, still trying to sound casual, but certainly intrigued now. If I he didn’t know any better, he would say he was also worried, but the Diagnostician never cared about other people enough to be worried.

“Everything,” Cuddy answered, gesticulating widely, “I'm coping perfectly well one day. Then the next something comes up and I can’t cope anymore. Or sometimes I hang on for one more day until I break down. Maybe not visibly, maybe I don’t cry or shout or… whatever else people do when they break down. But I’m filled with anger and pain and… emptiness. The emptiness is the worst. When all feelings just stop and I’m not even afraid of them not coming back, I’m just afraid. Of this vast emptiness inside of me. It’s like standing in front of an eternal emptiness. And the danger isn’t that I could jump but that I could… not jump. And the emptiness will just go on and on, and never end.”

“But you love your job,” House threw in, “you have friends you go out with. You have men you sleep with.”

“I hate my job,” Cuddy replied, “and the only reason I pretend – even to myself – that I like it is because it’s the only thing I can do. I was always interested in medicine and kinda good in organizing things and talking to people about organizing thing. And I’m not even a real doctor! I don’t save people. That’s what you do. I’m completely replaceable. And I don’t have friends, I have acquaintances. Wanna know what happened to the last person I called ‘friend’? He disappeared. Wasn’t the first one to do so either. People call me a friend, I’m sure about that. But they don’t know me. They don’t understand me. Because they can’t. If I told them everything about me, they would run too... And for the men: I've never been as satisfied with a guy as I was with myself, if you know what I mean."

“Why are you telling me this?” House enquired. All of this didn’t come completely unexpected. Cuddy had seemed depressed for weeks now, and she probably had every right to be. There had been – mostly unjustified – complaints by patients, the city wanted to cut funding again and some very renowned doctors had threatened to leave because they blamed Cuddy for this – also completely unjustified. But why on earth would Cuddy come to him with this? House didn’t know any of her girlfriends nor did he have any clue if they really weren't "real" friends. But even Wilson could have given the Dean of Medicine better advice than he could. Especially because this was about feelings and he simply didn’t do feelings.

“Because you don’t care,” Cuddy answered. Which didn’t make any sense at all.  
“Because you don't care about hurting my feelings," Cuddy explained further, "Only you can tell me what to do on a completely rational level. I don't even care if it helps. I just want to change something. Anything. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. Whatever it is. You want me to kneel? Fine. You want me to cut myself? I'll do it. Or maybe you can give me some of your painkillers. Maybe you can lock me up and just feed me with them and nothing else. I don't mind. You can even hit me if you want. Just, do something. I can't live like this anymore."

House swallowed. He was pretty good at reading people. If one of his patients was suicidal, he usually saw it at once. But never before had anyone made it so obvious to him, that they had fallen and couldn't get up anymore. Not without help, at any rate, maybe not even with help.

The Diagnostician understood Cuddy, though. He knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted physical pain to numb the emotional pain. That or medication. But it didn’t work like that. The pain didn’t just “go away” because it was replaced by something else. Because all of those solutions were only temporary.

“For how long?" House asked.

Cuddy looked up at him for the first time. So far she had only been talking down to her shoes. Her eyes were wide and scared. “For however long you want,” she answered.

“And what then?” House asked. “What if I torture you, drug you, degrade you… and then I get bored? Or do you want me to do this for all eternity?"

“I don't know,” Cuddy answered, her voice tiny now. Again she looked down at her shoes. As if she was scared of what he would do… or of what he wouldn’t do. Suddenly, it was as if a fuse burnt through in House’s brain.

“Look at me when you’re talking to me,” the Diagnostician barked.

Cuddy looked up, startled.

“You want me to guide you, fine," House said harshly, “But then you’ll have to act according to my rules. And there will be no self-harm involved, and no painkillers.”

“But…,” the Dean started.

“Don’t interrupt me!” House shouted.

Cuddy winced, but was otherwise quiet.

“You want someone else to be in control? Fine,” the doctor said, “But then you will only do what I say and when I say it, understood?”

“Yes,” Cuddy said quietly, but she didn’t look away this time.

“So, first of all, you take a shower, you stink," House ordered. This wasn't entirely true, of course, and even if it was he wouldn't be able to smell it from that distance. But the clothes the Dean was wearing didn’t look comfortable, especially the shoes. Besides, a hot shower made even the most depressed person feel a bit better, even a first grader could tell you this.

“A shower?” Cuddy asked. Obviously she had expected something else.

“That’s what I said,” the Diagnostician agreed, “and leave the door open.”

The Dean opened her mouth to say something else, but House interrupted her: “No more questions. Go now! I’ll find you something comfortable to wear.”

Cuddy shut her mouth and headed for the shower. After she had left, House went into his bedroom and dug up a fresh sweatshirt and some old training pants. They wouldn’t fit, but they would be comfortable. As far as underwear went, Cuddy would have to improvise. No underwear would probably be best. Not from a sexual point of view, but considering the way the Dean was feeling right now. House would just wrap her into a blanket, but he didn’t want her to feel completely unable to move around, go to the bathroom or leave, if she wanted to. So he took the clothes and reached them into the bathroom.

When the Dean was back, she still didn’t look like she had cried. House had to change that. Too much build-up emotion could kill a man, he knew that from experience.

“Tell me what’s wrong with you,” House said after Cuddy had settled comfortably on the couch.

“With me?” Cuddy asked.

“Yes, there must be something wrong with you or you wouldn’t feel so bad about yourself,” the doctor explained, “You would be angry, maybe sad, but you wouldn’t feel the way you are feeling right now.”

The Dean took a deep breath, then answered: “I don’t fit in. I’ve tried so hard and I’ve always been kind of popular. But in the end, I have no-one to talk to. You remember the other day, when I was sick? I wasn’t sick, I just didn’t feel up to working on that day. But I couldn’t tell anyone. Everyone feels sorry for their co-worker if they have a broken leg, but if you can’t make it out of the flat without already giving up, nobody even understands what you're going through."

“What do you mean, giving up?” House asked.

“Well, I do everything ‘right’, it’s not like I’m making any mistakes. Or at least not mistakes I could have avoided. Sometimes things just happen, or I’m really tired or not feeling well, or people are being unfair or… But it’s not like in school, when you get grades and yes, you made a few mistakes, but you still got a B, so that’s fine. Or maybe sometimes you get a D, but then you just sit down and study hard, and next time you’ll get an A and everything will be fine again. At work, you just aren’t allowed to make mistakes. And that was ok, for some time. I’ve learnt that. At the beginning, when I was fresh from university, I was stilling making a few mistakes, but that was ok, people understood. Then, the higher up I got, the fewer mistakes I was allowed to make. This was alright too, I got better paid for this and got more privileges. But at some point, I just wasn’t allowed any mistakes anymore. I work 9 hours a day, sometimes more, but I can’t be tired. I can’t be sick or sickly. I can’t have a bad day. Never. And if I do, I’m not supposed to show it.”

“Are you complaining about being a grown-up?” House asked.

Cuddy frowned, thinking for a while, then she answered: "No. Actually, I'm not complaining about any of this. It's not like I love my job to no end or I’m living a dream, but that's life. I could live with that. But it's not worth it. I come home and I don't even have time to cook. I used to love cooking. But it's not that either. Never having time... I can live with that. But if I take away my job, there's... nothing else. There's nothing I want to do anymore. If I watch this film or read that book... it doesn't matter. And the job gets harder every day, people are complaining more every day, and I’m always the “bad guy” because I’m the boss, I feel like I work longer hours every day but achieve less… and then I come home and there’s nothing. Nothing to come home to. It’s so pointless!”

Still no tears.

“Do you hate yourself?” the doctor asked.

This time, Cuddy didn’t even have to think. “Yes”, she said, “People have hobbies, they find friends, even if it’s sometimes hard, they found a family… everybody seems to function but me. And I've got money, I’ve got a job, other people don’t have that! But I’m not happy. I’m ridiculous.”

“Do you look in the mirror and hate yourself?” House asked.

“Yes,” Cuddy said, “I used to be skinny, but then I've gained weight. I wasn't happy being skinny, but after gaining weight I wasn't happy either. So I lost weight again. It didn't change anything. I wanted to do sports, wanted to get perfect abs… but I never got round to it. I’m so weak, so fucking weak.”

The Dean hit the arm of the couch with her flat hand. He was close now.

“What about those fantasies? Do you feel guilty about them at all?” House asked.

“Yes, oh God yes I do. I can’t stop thinking about it,” Cuddy said, “I’ve tried. Many times. I can’t find a man I want to live with, but I want to throw myself at the next guy who comes along. But I never do that either. I don’t trust most men, and the ones I trust usually aren’t interested in me. And that only makes sense. I mean look at me! Just look at me!”

The first tears started rolling down Cuddy’s cheeks. “I hide behind all of this make-up, do everything to look pretty,” the Dean sniffed, “and it doesn’t even matter. Nothing matters, nothing!”

She was really crying now, sobs shaking her body and her hands lying uselessly at her sides, as if it didn’t even occur to her to cover her face. House had never seen her like this before: raw and open. But a wound had to be raw and open to be able to heal again.

“I hate this life,” Cuddy sobbed, “I hate it so much. But I can’t… I can’t even end it. I’m not strong enough. I’m not like you.”

“Ending your life isn’t strong,” the Diagnostician stated, “it’s the coward’s way out. I tried that once and I’m a coward. You're stupid if you don't agree with this. And I know you're not stupid.”

“But it doesn’t end,” Cuddy said, still crying, “It never ends. I just want it to end. Please make it end!"

“It’s not that easy,” House explained calmly, “but I can make the burden lighter for you. All that anguish, all that pain, I can't just make it go away. But you can, gradually, and maybe not all of it, but you can. Because you are strong. You always have been. You never give up. Maybe on this day, on this week, but not on life. Maybe you don't believe in yourself, but I can do this for you. Whenever you lie on the ground, I can tell you to get up. Until you do it automatically. Optimism isn’t a personal trait, it’s a state of mind. You can worry every day, every minute of the day… or you can just decide not to worry. I know it sounds ridiculous, but try it. Try not to care about anyone anymore. Or at least not more than you have to. Do your best and that’s it. You can’t give any more. If you give 110% one day, you will only have 90% for the next. It's a simple equation. And if by the end of the week your figures don't add up... well too bad, one more scare on your already fragile soul. And of course you're not making friends if you're still 100% busy with enduring all of your own pain. Nobody can understand that because all they would ever hear would be the ending of the story without knowing the beginning."

“Will you be there?” Cuddy asked. She had cried all through his speech, but she had also listened. And she was much calmer now.

“Yes,” House promised, “I will be there. Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere. And however shitty you feel, you can tell me. I mean I don't care if your feelings are completely unreasonable. I won't understand either why you think you're fat when you're actually gorgeous, but hey, I'm used to stupidity."

The Dean laughed. “You’re an arse.”

“And so are you,” the Diagnostician answered, “you should have come to me earlier.”

“I wasn’t ready,” Cuddy replied.

“No, you didn’t trust me,” House countered, “but that’s ok, I don’t trust myself sometimes. However, if you ever have to choose between me and self-mutilation again, choose me, we'll all be happier."

Cuddy was suddenly serious again. “So you’ve seen… that.”

“Yes,” the doctor said, “of course I’ve seen the stupid scratches on your arm. They are juvenile. You can do so much better.”

“Can I kiss you?” Cuddy suddenly asked.

“Would it help?” the Diagnostician asked back.

“I’m not sure,” Cuddy replied, “But we could try…”

“And what then? Sleep with me?" the doctor enquired, "And then? Wake up next to me and regret it?"

“I haven’t thought that far,” the Dean admitted.

“Come here then,” House said and took her in his arms.

He held Cuddy until she fell asleep. He lover her like nobody else, but for now holding her was more that enough. And with every minute Cuddy slept, her soul got a bit lighter and she got a bit further away from the emptiness she so feared.


End file.
